Headlong Toward The Starry Sea
by Meredith Bronwen Mallory
Summary: Prometheus-inspired AU. Having recently lost his wife, renowned geneticist Brian Xavier signs a 5-year mission contract with Weyland Industries- and brings along his son, Charles. The Nephthys is a deep space research vessel, complete with cryo facilities and a David 8 model Ship's Assistant. 131-7-142119YRK- otherwise known as Erik- doesn't stand a chance.
1. Arrivals

**Trigger Warnings:** Dubious ethics regarding the creation/owning of androids, futuristic bigotry and ableism that in no way reflect the feelings of the author. Underage (16+); emotions, no physical activity until all parties are able to legally consent.

**Additional Warnings:** AU, robot!Erik, adorkable!Charles, robo-Erik-will-Hulk-smash-if-you-look-at-his-little-telepath-wrong. Tongue-in-cheek speculation about the future. The author read too many space-operas and pulp sci-fi magazines as an impressionable child. ^_~

Additional note: all correct/logical information about space and astronomical events means I actually did pay attention in my astrology survey class. All errors mean I was probably daydreaming about slash. ^^; My apologies.

HEADLONG TOWARD THE STARRY SEA 1/?

By Meredith Bronwen Mallory (garnettrees)

_"When first Al Aaraf knew her course to be _

_Headlong thither o'er the starry sea." _

-Edgar Allan Poe, "Al Aaraf"

By the time UEC Nephthys was deployed for the Sirius mission, Ship's Assistant 131-7-142119YRK had been operative for 17.36 years, and had served aboard the deep space research vessel for just as long. He was a Weyland Industries David 8 model- tall, as they all were, blue eyes, sandy hair and chiseled features standard. At the time of release, his EROS system had been the most sophisticated on the market. Ad campaigns had touted his line as 'blurring' the distinction between human and machine and, in a way, they did. Weyland's Public Relations department had labored long and hard over how to make the David 8 as commercially attractive as possible, without tripping into any of those pesky 'sentient's rights' or 'organic sovereignty' issues. 131-7-142119YRK was one of many, many units produced from the David 8 blueprint, though he had never met another android like himself. The Office of Technological Asset Control very carefully monitored and limited the ratio of androids to humans, on all outposts within the solar system. He had been addressed many ways from the outset- the first crew of the Nephthys tried calling him something retro and cutesy like 'One-Three-Are-Kay', but it never stuck. He was called 'Ship's Assistant', 'Mr. Steward' and 'Bellhop'- usually depending on the particular human's feelings about synthetic lifeforms. 'David' seemed like the logical choice, but that was the name of his model. Ordinary citizens might not interact with androids very frequently, but the scientists and spacers who came through the Nephthys _did_, and they found the appellation too confusing.

Salt-spacers- the old breed of working class stiff that had been risking their necks in space since before artificial gravity- called him 'Robbie'. 131-7-142119YRK represented the cutting edge of artificial intelligence, capable of interpreting and responding to human emotions. He could perhaps (it had not been conclusively proven) experience the faintest of rudimentary emotions himself. This in no way made his system capable of housing something as powerful as love, or hate, or regret. (He really hated being called 'Robbie'.)

131-7-142119YRK called himself 'Erik'. Perhaps that ought to have been an indication of hazards ahead, but no one really noticed. By the the time the Nephthys was on her second mission, everyone just assumed 'Erik' had picked up his name from some wise-ass who'd come before. That is was his own idea never occurred to them and, of course, no one ever asked. Despite more than a decade's passing, he was still considered very sophisticated. EROS (Emotional Response Operating Systems) technology had ground to a stand-still in the intervening years, while Weyland Industries battled several lawsuits regarding intellectual property and ethics violations.

Erik had no complaints in his file, and mission-ratings that ranged from 'very satisfactory' to 'considerably efficient'. He had received only two coaching calibrations, both for 'emotionally distressing' crew members under his care. (They said he was 'really creepy'.)

ERYK- as he considered himself in the privacy of his own subroutines- was aware that he could, at times, make his human charges feel uncomfortable. He had made several adjustments to his behavioral response protocols, in an effort to compensate. 'Creepy' or not, the feelings of the crew had never reached the point where distaste or anxiety had expressed itself as a verbal or physical confrontation. He bore the light (and not-so) hearted jabs of his human makers- the snide remarks, the cliched puns, and sometimes more vicious attempts to demean- as though he noticed them not at all. It was the prevailing opinion among humans that androids, for all their massive data storage space, did not have long 'emotional' memories. And anyway, in the end they were still very much appliances, and the verbal abuse was a way to let off steam. The way consumers had once vented their frustrations on wait-staff and service personnel. It was just one of those things.

More than fifteen years after rolling off the production line, the Ship's Assistant was in no danger of being replaced. He was refurbished and updated for the Sirius mission, but remained intact. Weyland Industries acknowledged that all Davids, in their efforts to understand and interpret humans, could be perceived as disconcerting in their affect (or lack thereof).

As with all David 8's, 131-7-142119YRK's incorruptible core programming made him practical, inquisitive, and a keen observer of any and all patterns around him. He was designed to mentally withstand long periods of isolation in space, to value new artifacts and information, and even empowered with a few basic creative capabilities. He was definitely a scientist's robot- programmed to protect and preserve all discoveries, in so far as that did not interfere with what Weyland Industries somewhat snidely referred to as the 'Asimov Code'. He was disinclined to impose, eloquent when he did speak, and _very_ discrete.

The Nephthys mission was headed by archaeologist Dr. Moira McTaggart and crypto-geneticist Dr. Brian Xavier, with support from other multidisciplinary researchers like Sebastian Shaw and Hank McCoy. Xavier, recently widowed and a _very_ vocal proponent of panspermia, was considered a bit of a maverick choice for Weyland, but he was clearly the very best in his field. He brought with him a young, quiet and thoroughly sweet son named Charles.

Erik- listed in the manifest as 131-7-142119YRK; cargo, rather than crew- didn't stand a chance.

"How long have you been on the Nephthys?"

Erik is not capable of being startled, but he does note the incident as somewhat unusual. It is rare a human can approach him without detection. Upon turning, he can immediately see why. A pair of pale, bare feet register in his vision centers, little pink toes apparently unmoved by the cold deck. The android actually has to crane his neck to look up- this new human is standing at the top of the galley steps, leaning over the railing and regarding the Ship's Assistant with luminous blue eyes.

"I am the Nephthys' steward," he tells the newcomer. Judging by body-mass, height and vocal range, he appears to be a caucasian male of approximately twelve years of age. Erik continues, employing tone-gentling sub-routines designed for his rare interactions with children. "As such, I have always been aboard this vessel." His own eyes (selection GE14, 'Abyss Green') flicker downward again. "Where are your shoes?"

"So, I guess you were onboard when Dr. Stark's team observed the Eta Carinae transition?" A winning smile from his young guest, though the boy blatantly refuses to comment on the matter of footwear.

"I was." Still not surprise, but perhaps a reevaluation of the slim form before him. The Eta Carinae transition to supernova made enormous waves in the scientific community as the most closely observed event of its kind. Aside from a brief news blip, it had been of little interest to the ultra-neon, stream-lined majority population, many of whom trended by the nano-second.

"Was it very beautiful?" Those bare feet are on tip-toes now, the skinny form leaning further over the railing. "I saw a multi-spectrum composite image, but I can't imagine what it would look like in the visual range, even at a distance of light-years. I read that Stark's shielding had to take into account the gamma-"

"You will injure yourself," the Ship's Assistant cautions, placing his own hands on the rail and taking a few steps upward. "Please put both feet on the floor." The boy does, but he continues to blink expectantly at Erik with his statistically anomalous blue eyes.

"So, was it?" The young boy prompts after a moment.

"It was… very visually arresting," Erik agrees mildly. It had been- though the distance required to maintain safety meant that no movement could be detected, the arch and swirl of gas and other ejecta reached an almost mathematical elegance, with colors in such fine optical gradations that the android can honestly say he'd seen a few shades for the very first time.

Instead of bursting forth with another set of questions or sentence fragments, the boy tilts his head to the side, silent as he calmly appraises Erik, before finally smiling. "Yes," he says, nodding to himself. "I can see that it was." It is then that the galley lights catch on the small, indigo-blue tag affixed to the cartilage of the human's ear. As small as a poppy seed, but utterly damning in its brilliance and vivid dye. A telepath, then. Tilting his chin up fractionally, the boy thrusts forward a small hand.

"Charles Xavier."

The name is announced boisterously, and with enough pride that even Erik can detect it. He looks at the proffered hand, and then at the metallic tag, trying to decide if there are correlating variables, or if he should also factor in youth. In all his time functioning, Erik has been greeted in many ways- most of them thinly veiling discomfort or aggression- but he has never been offered the thoughtless ritual humans seem to eager to exchange with each other.

"I am a robot," he says finally. Gentle, his EROS reminds him- the boy is young and not fully socialized.

"It's a good job, that," Charles' smile broadens. "Otherwise you couldn't be the Ship's Assistant." His hand remains where it is, fingers relaxed and curled slightly inward. "A human brain could never handle so much input. I had this scale-model brain made of organic vegetable material, only my sister started playing with the charge I was applying, and she overloaded it." He leans forward a little- Erik's sophisticated sensors detect subvocal laughter. "There were veggie brains _everywhere_."

"I am called Erik," the android says at last. He is holding the small, warm hand in a careful grip- firm, as his programming suggests, to imply trustworthiness. His synthetic brain is, in many ways, a copy of his human creators'. As such, he does not need to consciously make a decision for every action. He doesn't remember deciding to take this boy's hand.

"Spectacular!" Charles praises, in a tone obviously picked up from listening to socializing adults. It's somehow charming anyway, as if Erik is supposed to be in on some joke. "Can I see the files from Eta Carinae? I mean, whatever's declassified? My dad has higher clearance-"

"Charles!" It's a feminine voice, echoing off the corridor from whence the boy would have come. A moment later, a young woman stomps loudly onto the stairway scaffolding in a pair of impossible green heels. "Honestly, Charles!" she says, throwing up her hands. The lights catch on her pop-glass rings and glittery nail polish, but her ears are utterly unmolested and bare. She's blond, little to no physical resemblance to the boy, with a streak of emerald in her hair and attractive-if-enthusiastic eye makeup. "I found your shoes up on C Deck!"

"Thank you?" Charles makes it a tentative question, widening his eyes in a way Erik knows most humans find to be 'cute'. He's still holding the android's hand, the other perched on the railing. Leaning over, he informs Erik in a stage whisper, "That's my sister, Raven."

"Your sister of impeccable taste and amazing forbearance," Raven corrects him. Her gaze finally slides over Erik, and moves away just as fast. "You'll have three weeks to bother the Ship's Assistant. Daddy wants to go out to dinner before I leave." Which explains the sleek, peridot-gold stola clinging to her athletic form.

At this point, Erik should quietly disengage and tend to one of the many pre-launch tasks that will consume his existence for the next three weeks. When he tries to take a deferential step backwards, he realizes the boy's grip on his hand has evolved into them being pressed against each other's sides.

"I don't want to go to dinner," Charles sighs. "I don't want you to leave."

"Technically, _you're_ the one leaving. The planet, the solar system." Raven reminds him, rolling her eyes.

"Yes, but…" Another heavy exhalation of air and, whatever Raven sees in his upturned face, it makes her own expression soften towards the boy.

"Hey," she says quietly, reaching out a hand. "I won't leave until we talk about it." After a moment, her tone resumes its former brightness. "But you're not even dressed!" She tugs at him, effectively leaving Erik on the opposite end, trying to free his hand without injuring his human companion.

"This is Erik!" Charles himself finally lets go, reaching up to tug on the grey sleeve of the Assistant's uniform. "He's going to show me pictures of the Eta Carinae explosion!"

"I'm sure he will," she pats her brother's auburn hair affectionately. Still no move to acknowledge the android, though that is by no means unusual. "Come along."

"Bye, Erik!" the boy waves over his shoulder. "I'll see you when I get back."

Erik does not wave in return. He does not call out to the boy, either, as it is obvious the older sister would prefer he make his presence as unobtrusive as possible. If he hesitates for .67 seconds before turning back towards his rounds, it is only because the incident involved somewhat atypical interactions. He does not have a great deal of experience with children, and all his files suggest the one he just met is unusually intelligent. Nephthys' main database has been fully outfitted with all the necessary personnel information, and he accesses it with the ease of involuntary muscle movement.

Charles Francis Xavier. Fourteen, according to his records, and already causing stirs of interest from think-tanks and education specialization centers. He is scathingly intelligent- a prodigy who no longer attends formal schooling with his peers. Taking children- or adolescents- on long deep-space missions is usually frowned upon, but Brian Xavier seems to have secured permission to do so in exchange for his own highly sought-after services. Charles is listed as being in the elder Xavier's custody, and a ward of Weyland Industries in the unlikely event something should go wrong. An Omega class telepath, as the ear-tag suggested, on a high dose of suppressants. The stunning amount of Hapaxam ordered for this journey suddenly makes a great deal of sense. If the other members of the crew don't know they'll be sharing the Nephthys with a telepath, they will very shortly, and they will all what to be reassured that he is Null.

An unusually smart, talented child isolated from his contemporaries. A boy with what many in the human population classify as a 'disability'. Studies suggest that highly intelligent children are sometimes emotionally delayed- Erik considers this a likely reason that the boy would be so engaging and friendly with a being most around him ignore completely. It is of little consequence. Charles Xavier will be one of seventy-five people under the android's care in the coming months and years. While fragile, children are also highly adaptable, and Charles will surely find himself a more suitable human to consort with on the ship. Erik may experience a few days of slightly lowered productivity if the boy really is as enthusiastic as he seems, but it will pass. After all, even adult humans have notoriously short attention spans.

Except, of course, that's not the way it works out.


	2. PreLaunch I

A/N: Wow... *blinks owlishly* Thank you guys so, so much for all the amazing feedback! I'm so thrilled to hear that Erik's POV is working, and that the world-building isn't too boring. I'm also glad that Charles being a little emotionally-backwards makes sense... I hope to elaborate more on that a little later. I just can't thank you guys enough for taking the time to comment- every last one of you is amazing.

Hopefully this next part won't disappoint! I promise not all of the story will move this slowly, but I did want the boys to get a know each other a little before take-off. ^_^;;

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HEADLONG TOWARD THE STARRY SEA 2/?

By Meredith Bronwen Mallory (garnettrees)

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Three weeks is somewhat lengthy for a mission prep, but not unheard of. With the number of highly trained specialists on board, Erik knows that his human charges will not lack activities to keep them occupied. Already, he has seen the deck-hands loading seemingly endless freight-tonnes of excavation and preservation equipment for Dr. McTaggart. Dr. Shaw is also expecting a shipment of synthetic lab mammals, so that he may continue working on his research until the very day of launch. The mammals- whichever of the myriad designer biologicals he has chosen- will not be making the trip of course, they will be euthanized before launch. With Weyland Industries footing the bill, however, it is little wonder that Dr. Shaw is willing to be frivolous with specimens that can cost Universities well into six figures.

(Erik has not encountered many genuine lifeforms outside the human crews he's cared for. He has never, for example, seen a house cat- synthetic or otherwise. He has seen a few birds about in the space station's biogardens, too messy and unrefined to be anything but natural. Strictly speaking, most people would not consider lab biologicals under the same category as other animals, man-made or otherwise. They are designed to be the perfect test subjects, with high tolerance for pain and a low tendency towards behavior issues. To Erik, many of them look like naked rats or monkeys. Hairless, vaguely saurian gray skin shining dully in the fluorescent lights. You can tell them, too, by their milky-pink eyes- their designers weren't too interested in aesthetics.

Still… it's the waste that bothers him. Not an emotional response, but a practical one. Waste.)

Many of the scientists will be seeing each other's data for the first time, brought together from disparate other projects Weyland funds. Dr. McCoy seems particularly eager to discuss and analyze the elder Xavier's work. The details and objectives of the Sirius Mission itself are highly classified- to be revealed only after the Nephthys is firmly past the orbit of Pluto. Weyland Industries has the prestige (and the financial solvency) to accomplish this with ease. Even somewhat eccentric scientists- like Brian Xavier- seem to find their liberal megrims outweighed by the thought of resources and information available once indentured to the company.

Erik's own data package on the mission will download at the appointed time, so that he might make himself useful to Ms Frost, the mission coordinator. Until then, it is of little consequence. His time is consumed by endless pre-flight checks, room-assignments, delivery coordinations, legal documentation, health files, and so forth. He is designed in such a way that it is impossible to overwhelm him with tasks or information- if he cannot process all the data at once (rare), he assigns a triage method of priority and moves on from there.

With so much to do, Erik continues stalking briskly about the ship long after the environmental lights have dimmed to simulate 'night'. Only forty-five of the persons slated for the Nephthys have arrived- mostly civilian scientists, and the petty deck-hands that comprise the 'skeleton crew'. A smaller population lends itself to fewer abnormal occurrences. Yet, for the second time in less than twenty-four hours, he encounters a mundane but unanticipated irregularity.

He's on his way to the lounge on Deck F, with an updated medical and allergy report to set parameters for the food dispensers. Often while working, he plays audio files in the privacy of his own consciousness- mostly classical piano pieces, though he does have a bit of a weakness for early rock'n'roll. The low, dark rhythm of Beethoven's Sonata No 8, however, is not sourced from any of his internal systems. As he approaches the lounge, he can pick up the high, delicate notes of contrast as the tempo picks up, but the room itself is largely dark. Two of the wall sconces are aglow, bathing the room in a dim rose-ish gold light.

"Hello?" Erik inquires, considering it quite likely that someone had used the room and forgotten to put things back in order. There's only one person registered on this deck- McCoy- but that means nothing. People don't always use the facilities on their appropriate level.

"Hello." The youthful pitch gives it away instantly, though Erik still cannot see the room's occupant. The brief word is almost sing-song, though; a new tenor bell amongst the orderly music. There's a shuffling noise, and Charles peeks over the back of the curved sofa, trying to wave and keep himself supported at the same time. "I'm sorry, am I in the way?"

"Not at all," Erik answers, stepping into the low conversation pit so that he might see his guest fully. The boy's hair is in disarray, flopping over his smooth forehead; he's wearing a thin t-shirt, with a blue robe over it, and matching slippers. In his lap are several glass prisms and anti-prisms, the kind of models used in high school geometry. The small fingers roll the shapes between them- here blue to match the robe, red like the glass of the emergency light, a yellow like the boy's shimmering, reserved sister. "I just came to update the allergy information in the processors." He turns towards the panel in question, fully expecting to be dismissed.

"Do they all respond separately?" Charles asks, kneeling up as if to peer over Erik's shoulder.

"They do. It would be more logical for each to respond from the central Nephthys' database, but many humans do not like their selections being limited by the allergies of other crew members."

"I guess that makes sense." He's back to rolling the little model polyhedron's together. There must be more in his pockets- now there's a green cube, and a deep purple dodecahedron almost the same shade as Charles' ear-tag. "So you've gotta do them all one-by-one?"

"Yes," Erik answers. It is the work of a few moments- quick application of the card chip, and the override to keep it in place. He marks Lounge F off on his pad, sticking the small bag of microchips back in his pocket. He turns back to the boy, still curled up on the couch, lost in the over-stuffed burgundy pillows and chrome frame. The younger Xavier really is quite small for his age. Erik keeps his expression in a fairly neutral range- polite interest would be appropriate for an adult, but the EROS suggests he soften it for the boy. He easily complies.

"I'm not allergic to anything," Charles rolls his shoulders. "Edible, that is." Erik's gaze moves towards the combination coffee-table projector unit. The boy has clearly hooked up his music player, but there are also more colored prisms and a reader-pad scattered around the ledge. "I guess I'm allergic to sleep."

"Hence your presence here." An unnecessary elaboration, but that is sometimes a part of human conversation. "Was the lounge on your own deck unsatisfactory?"

"What? Oh, no!" The boy's eyes widen in alarm, and it takes Erik a beat to realize the boy may feel accused of censuring the android in some way. Quite the paradox in and of itself, and not really something Erik is equipped to address. The young voice hits a couple of higher notes notes as he babbles, "It's fine- great, really… I promise. I just don't sleep well."

Silence seems advisable here- the boy may add more data on his own.

Charles does. "My sister is going to stay a few more days. Which is great! But if I'm up knocking about on our deck, Raven will _know_. She'll stay up with me, and she really needs to be rested. She starts at Stanford on Monday."

"Ah," says Erik. It is considered outré to keep some of the more arbitrary measures of Earthtime in a spaceport, but a quick check with the Nephthys system tells the Assistant that- as of 0:00 HRS- today is a Thursday. Ms Raven is cutting things a bit fine- the resources of the Xavier family are considerable, but there is still the behemoth of inter-Earth transport and security to contend with.

"It's great, it really is!" Charles' mimics his sister's forced-brightness tone almost cadence for cadence, but it is subconscious. Internalized, rather than a mockery.

"Is there something I can do for you?" the android asks, trying to make his expression as accepting as possible. He does not want the human to think he is criticizing, but he is at a loss for what to do with a small, insomniac adolescent boy.

"I'm good." This is apparently demonstrated in practice by the fact Charles is gently flicking his colored prisms through the 'goal-posts' of his knees. Plink, the red diamond-esque octahedron. Plink, the yellow square anti-prism. The cube itself goes wild, flashing bottle-glass green in the dim light, and Erik catches it quickly. The pieces themselves are very nice- cubix glass designed to interface with most 3-D display sets so the students can practice orienting them on various planes. Not a child's toys, and well cared for- no scratching on the iridescent surfaces. Never the less, there is something about the image of this boy sitting here, rolling the crystals around in his hands with only their clatter and Beethoven for company… something that is discomforting, but in no way concrete. Erik is not an expert on human development, nor has he downloaded any texts on the matter. It is his general understanding that the teen years are a particularly tricky period, but this is more an impression picked up from general pop culture input and his own meandering in the film archives.

"Thanks," Charles says, holding out a milk-white palm. "I know I shouldn't cart them around- they're not toys… but I like them."

Instead of handing the piece over, Erik tosses it with careful aim. The boy catches it with alacrity, smile making his nose wrinkle a little. "You enjoy geometry?"

"'It is important to have a basic understanding of all disciplines before settling on one's specialty'." If the deeper tone were not evidence of being repeated verbatim, the tiny finger 'air-quotes' would be. "I like the idea of higher dimensional shapes, and I've always been fascinated by color. I like the idea of planes and sets you define… it's like space. Infinite."

Curious. Erik has been designed to watch for- and shield from- space-related psychosis in his charges. The vastness of the universe can be overwhelming, even to a synthetic brain. While most scientists are highly suited to grasping the uncomfortable scale of that which they study, even they are not immune. This boy seems oddly comforted by the open blackness, the deep void where- in the most disparate corners of his processors- Erik considers himself… if not free, then at least unencumbered. For a while, they sit there; Erik kneeling by the couch, Charles flicking quick glances up at the android's face, and then back down to the prisms that obligingly fit to one another in his hands.

"The Nephthys has a large music selection," Erik offers, after a lengthy pause. It is his job to see to the well-being of every one of his charges, but he is used to adult humans. It is rare that they seek him out for company, and even more rare that they do not dismiss him when they are in physical or emotional pain. He very clearly remembers everything that has happened since his activation- his cognitive systems may be modeled on a human, but he has infinitely more storage space. Never the less, he has for some reason assigned an unusually high priority to the words of the one of the first scientists he encountered. Dr. Grey had taken more care to positively engage Erik than many other passengers he'd known, but even her cheerful efforts paled in the face of one overwhelming incident.

_('Just go away.' She had been ill, responding to Erik's inquiries with short sentence fragments and irritation. 'I'm fine.' She'd been bent over the washbasin at an almost perfect right-angle, bone-pale with the faintest sheen of nausea. 'Most humans just want to crawl away and be miserable where we're safe.'_

_'You are safe,' Erik had reminded her. His systems allowed for intuitive learning, but he had only been active for two years. His EROS system made a suggestion. 'Jean, I want to help you.'_

_'You can't!' Red face and red hair- eyes blazing in her face while she set her teeth hard. Her normally neat french braid was all disarray, but the mess did not obscure the sapphire sheen of her ear-tag.'We don't feel safe around you, David 8. When we're hurt, we pull away, because we instinctively know you're Other.' She'd laughed a little then, palm punching the close mechanism on the door. 'Other, even to Other like me.')_

Inefficient, for such an early experience to have obtained such readily-accessible storage. Perhaps because Erik had very much wanted to ask for clarification, even as every one of his systems advised (yearned for?) retreat. Later, he'd seen Dr. Grey in the commissary- she'd smiled at him, but her eyes slid away. She was very careful to always call him 'Erik' after that.

"Maybe some other time," Charles says presently, disconnecting his own slim audio unit. It, and the crystal polyhedrons, join his reader-pad in the little messenger bag he had resting on the floor. He exhales quietly and, while it is soundless, it is also a great deal of air. Erik wonders if that qualifies as a sigh.

It is an old suggestion, and one that rarely bore fruit, but the Assistant asks anyway. "What can I do to help you?"

"Can I-" the boy bites his lip, "May I come with you, if you don't mind? I know you don't need help to do your job- you could run this ship by yourself- but I'll stay out of the way. I just don't want to be alone."

Interesting phrasing. Charles _could_ accompany Erik- he could do anything he wanted, technically, since the android is programmed to accede to his human masters in all instances not violating the Asimov Code, or his less potent self-preservation programing. _May_ implies that Charles is asking for permission… and giving the robot a choice.

"Of course," Erik tells him, holding out a hand. There should have been a pause there, undetectable to humans but real none the less, during which his Courtesy Protocols weighed a 'white lie' against the the truthful need for productivity. Instead, the words slip out easily, utterly without consideration. Charles smiles at him again- this one is less buoyant, but somehow more real- and takes Erik's carefully sculpted, inoffensively flesh-toned hand.

Erik completes his rounds only eight minutes later than projected- well within the acceptable margin of error, which always allows for the unanticipated need to interact with members of the crew. By the time they reach I Deck, Charles is enthusiastically questioning him about the inert gas being carried in the Nephthys' ion engines. When they leave K Deck, Erik has thoroughly explained the advantages of xeon. The last deck is O- that which would be ground level when/if they should land. As it is the Operating Base for all ground missions, there are no food processors, but the unlikely pair allows for the lift's final stop anyway.

Erik has been appraised of quite a few things by this time; Charles likes mathematical theory, but isn't nearly so found of the actual equations. His favorite color is blue; he hates shoes, and also green beans, and wants to visit the Hadron Collider in Switzerland. Soccer and lacrosse are tied for favorite sports, but he can stomach basketball because Dad is such a fan. His sister is going to Stanford for engineering, but her true passion is design. She's really brilliant, but he can only tell her so every once-in-a-while, else she'd take it as license to inflict make-up and henna on him at every turn. Charles wants to be geneticist, but he'll probably never get clearance. (Here, those small fingers steal up to tug morosely at the ear tag- a brief but thick silence descends.) Still, it would be interesting to be a zoologist of some sort, and perhaps they will let him deal with genetics as long as he promises to confine himself to non-humans.

The boy is a seemingly inexhaustible spring of questions and observations, but even he must bow to the unrelenting red ticking of Oh-Three-Hundred Hours. Erik sees him through the lift to B Deck (quite the coupe for Dr. Xavier, this being his first contract with Weyland) with firm advice to get some sleep, so he can best enjoy his sister's remaining visit. Charles thanks him, squeezes his elbow, and is gone.

"See you tomorrow," the human says over his shoulder, only barely managing to stifle another yawn. It is only an expression, and it is the truth. Erik will see Charles for many tomorrows, for the length of the mission.

And there he is, bright-eyed for breakfast in the commissary, hair tended to and shirt tucked in, having submitted to the indignity of shoes. During a brief errand into the actual kitchens, Erik is easily able to observe the boy's enthusiastic engagement with his sister, and the way both siblings work to capture and maintain Dr. Xavier's attention. There are other things to be attended to, though, and quickly. Dr. Shaw's laboratory has been set to the highest academic and industry standards, but the doctor is thoroughly displeased and wants it all redone to his specifications. Erik and a rather harried looking McCoy spend the day re-calibrating, re-aligning, and generally revising the entire workspace.

By 22:00, even Sebastian Shaw feels the day has apparently been used to the fullest, and declares he will retire.

_('I think he sleeps in a coffin.' One of the deck-handlers- Alex. Brash, but smart enough to keep _that_ comment down to a whisper. 'Jay-zuz, kid,' says one of the more experienced hands. 'In a coffin, _upside down_.')_

Charles turns up at 22:53, peeking 'round the threshold to the helm. He smiles at Erik and asks what they'll be doing tonight.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Meredith's Dorky Space Notes II:

+_Large Hardon Collider at CERN_- the world's largest and most highly powered particle accelerator. On the border between France and Switzerland, near Geneva. They've actually been able to clock neutrinos going a few nano-seconds faster than the speed of light. Charles wants to play with *all* their shiny toys.

+_Ion Engines_- the next generation in rocket technology. Unlike traditional rockets, the fuel they'd carry would be inert gas, which weighs much less. It would take longer to build up speed, but ultimately it could cut the trip to Mars down to 39 days. And it _sounds_ good. ^_~


	3. PreLaunch II

#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#

HEADLONG TOWARD THE STARRY SEA 3/?

By Meredith Bronwen Mallory

(garnettrees)

#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#

Mission Coordinator Emma Frost activates her status and standard suite settings at 05:25 the following morning. She further announces herself with a terse message to Erik instructing him to collect her luggage from Operations Deck and deliver it post-haste. The Ship's Assistant is by no means the only one suddenly set dancing to Ms. Frost's brisk tune. When he arrives at Operations, he finds the deck swarming with every available hand, many of them surreptitiously downing caffeine shots, or grabbing sugar-shock bars from their lockers.

"It's not even Oh-Six-Hundred," Erik overhears Alex say. There are still neon green crumbs of energy bar clinging around his lips, and he's definitely not shy about sharing his opinions.

"You know what the 'Oh' stands for?" That's Armando, suiting up in one of the next generation Weyland exoskeletons. So clad, a human can lift up to two hundred pounds. Erik can lift three hundred without augmentation.

"'Oh my G-d it's early?'" Angel pipes in from the hatchway. "That joke is so _old_, Munoz." She's standing in her gray cover-all pants and a tank-top, intricate gold-ink tattoos accentuating the musculature of her arms. "Erik," she cries, waving the empty industrial mug in her hand, "there's no coffee in the dispenser!"

According to company protocols, the coffee supply for deck hands should be replaced every three days. Erik has long made it a practice to wait only two, based on the needs of pervious missions. He filed the additional requisitions under 'Crew Morale' and 'Accident Prevention'. (The Quartermaster had asked him if he thought he was being funny; Erik reminded him that humor was one of the most difficult and limited parts of EROS programming.)

Clearly, he will need to recalibrate ration projections for this group. They are probably mixing the shots with liquid coffee- hardly in line with their Health & Safety training, but the android knows from practical experience that such an observation will not be welcome.

"I will see to it as soon as I have taken care of Ms. Frost's things," Erik assures her. Once he has gathered all of the mission coordinator's not-inconsiderable luggage, he pauses near the lift. "Flight TechnicianSalvadore, one is reminded to to keep every article of Weyland-issue cover-alls in place on the equipment floor."

"One can suck my-"

Ah, but the lift door is closing automatically, and Erik can easily extrapolate the rest of that sentence. He is programed to protect his human charges from harm, but he cannot protect them from the holy terror that is Ms. Frost. However rigorously she may make demands of the Ship's Assistant, she will demand likewise of her crew. Erik's emotional systems are limited- but even he can appreciate the symmetry.

The Mission Coordinator's quarters are by far the most luxurious the Nephthys has to offer, and Ms. Frost has wasted no time establishing her territory. From her carry-on valise alone, she has set out several magazine readers, a music player, and a truly decadent faux-fur blanket folded over the sofa. There's another one thrown artfully at the foot of the bed- Erik can see it through the cubix-glass lattice separating the bedroom from the living space. Frost is standing by the empty closet, hands on her hips. Thankfully, she seems to be contemplating her storage space rather than the Assistant's timeliness. The faceted chandelier above turns her blond hair an almost stark platinum. Still in civilian clothes, she's a study in white; short, nearly transparent chiton flowing elegantly over her pale body-suit. The only bit of color is her mouth- a red lipstick slash against powdery skin. That, and the indigo metal tag clinging to the cartilage of her ear.

"Report," she says tersely.

"Preparations for launch are well underway," Erik tells her. The human is ignoring him in favor of unpacking her bags, but that in no way means she is not listening. "Forty-eight of the expected seventy-five crew members are on board. The entire scientific staff is accounted for. Dr. Shaw has biologicals that will need to be… dealt with… before take-off."

"Good god, why!?" Frost looks up from setting out her shoes. In addition to the very durable service boots issued by Weyland, there's an ornate pair of flat sandals, a pair of frankly ambitious heels, and long shiny white boots. Erik estimates this to be up to sixty percent more shoes then are actually necessary for the trip.

He pulls Dr. Shaw's requisition record from the Nephthys main-frame. "In the interests of testing all genetic polymorph variables-"

"Never mind," she says, waving away the extraneous information.

"All processors and medical dispensers are updated with the new crew information," Erik resumes smoothly. "Dr. McTaggart is waiting on one more shipment of micro-chisels and preservation fluid. Dr. Xavier says he requires new lenses and sensors to make his equipment more sensitive to non-visible light. I called Port Operations and requested a rush. We are still awaiting the arrival of twenty-six deck hands, as well as the Captain."

"Logan," Frost says, in a tone Erik has heard many humans use in regards to large bugs and unwanted vermin. She leans towards the vase of white camellias on the nightstand (expensive, on a space station) as if already offended by the roughneck's odor.

Erik has worked with this particular combination of Captain and Coordinator before. Despite the blond woman's reaction, the pair's leadership dynamic was actually part of what made the previous mission such a success. Both humans are brisk, efficient, and utterly upfront about their exacting standards. Logan, despite his his bulk of muscle, moves with an almost feline care, sharply aware of everything around him. Emma is a tactical genius, tutored by the finest administrative and communications experts Earth Corps has to offer. It is a persistent rumor that, had she not been born a telepath, she would have easily secured a commission with the Officer's Citadel on Mars. The fact she has achieved the title of Mission Coordinator in spite of her disability speaks to her tenacity and political acumen. For all these complimentary traits, the telepath and salt-spacer are diametrically opposite in execution. She would have been perfectly at home in shadowed vestibules of Machiavelli's Florence, while the Captain openly admits a preference for solving final disputes with his fists. Frost enjoys all manner of finery and quality indulgences; the only quality Logan concerns himself with is that of his cigars.

All EROS programming is designed to recognize that no two crews are every exactly alike. It is part of what made the David 8 model so marketable- the ability to understand that 'logical' and 'productive' solutions were sometimes blocked or diluted by the intricacy of human interaction. The gestalt of so many human beings working together results in variations as infinite and diverse and the individuals who comprise it. As an outside observer, one of the Assistant's duties is to head off altercations and personality conflicts. With almost two decades of experience, Erik considers his EROS to be sufficiently accurate with the former, and only 69% accurate with the later.

Sometimes two human beings simply take a disliking to one another for no tangible reason Erik can discern.

For example, he considers the likelihood that Ms. Frost is dramatizing her distaste to be quite high. He _knows_ his heightened olfactory sensors have detected potent- and conflicting- biological responses from Logan in regards to the woman who technically outranks him.

"The Captain is just coming off a mission on Callisto," the Ship's Assistant offers, keeping the rest of the anecdotal data to himself. Humans do not appreciate being reminded he must observe them in an attempt to understand. They do not like being watched.

"Small mercies," Frost murmurs. seating herself primly on the edge of the bed. Her gaze is fully on the android now. Erik notes that her eyes are blue- a pale shade, and unremarkable. "Anything else?"

"There are twenty-two cases of Hapaxam stored in refrigerated holds 48C and 49D. The Nephthys is programmed to continuously allot of a supply of power there in all but the most dire of emergencies."

Two things occur simultaneously. Frost's expression acquires an intense but subtle cast of aggression- and Erik puts both hands out, palms up in a peaceable gesture. He can see the moment logic defeats her instinct to take offense. It is, after all, only the sheer volume of their cargo that makes it worthy of remark.

"The Xavier boy," she says flatly.

"Charles." Unnecessary clarification, but his vocoder has already produced the sound.

"And who is our lucky licensed dispenser?"

"Doctor Sebastian Shaw has a current certificate. Brian Xavier has on file for one, but he's let it lapse."

"Well," Frost says, fishing delicately in her valise. She retrieves a small red book, tossing it vaguely in Erik's direction. Android reflexes ensure he catches it without faltering. "You may deliver my cycle-book to Dr. Shaw when you see him next. See to it he has all the necessary access codes, and make sure the Xavier boy submits his book, too. We'll try to sync up after we come out of Cryo, but for now Dr. Shaw will just have to put up with the inconvenience. Is that all?"

"Yes, Ma'am." Erik nods deferentially, but she's already turned away, busying herself with the laptop hookup to Nephthys' mainframe. She waves him away with silence and a limp, careless hand.

#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#

Music is blaring so loudly on B Deck that Erik can hear- and feel- it even before the lift doors open. The beat alone is even and up-tempo, vibrating along bulkheads and down into the lift-ducts. Once in the corridor, the cheerful notes are impossible to escape; clattering piano, xylophone, and a male voice providing pleasantly low contrast to the high melody. The source of disturbance is one of the deck's miniature suites, where the hatchway stands sealed and unremarkable. Charles' sister stands before it, arms crossed under her breasts, candied lips screwed up in an expression of displeasure. The folds of her crimson silk smock rustle as she alternates tapping her foot and kicking at the closed door. Frankly, both actions seem extremely unwise to the android, as well as being unproductive; Raven is wearing a pair of clunky gold heels with architecture ambitious enough to vie with Ms. Frost's collection.

"Char-les!" she yells, drawing out the name. "Come on! I said I was sorry!"

No response from her brother's quarters, save that the already earsplitting volume increases. Erik now has a large enough lyric sample to identify the language.

"Icelandic?" he inquires, raising his own voice to be heard. Startling ever-so-slightly, Raven turns towards him and lets out a long breath.

"Sigur Ros," she tells him, rolling her eyes. "He doesn't speak Icelandic, he just likes the song." Banging her fist on the door again. she adds, "And he's playing it at annoying volumes rather than _talk_ to me like a _reasonable person_!"

Transferring his gaze between the young woman and the closed chamber several times, the Ship's Assistant considers the situation. At nineteen, Raven must know that the sound and vibration caused by her assault on the door is negligible at best. Humans, however, often couple mild physical violence and inanimate objects to diffuse frustration. That may be her intent, in addition to drawing Charles' attention. The music _is_ very loud; it cannot be comfortable or enjoyable to anyone on the other side of the significantly dampening hatch material. If the suite's occupant were unable to hear the ruckus outside, it would follow that they would not be able to hear Charles, should he be in distress.

"I am authorized to override privacy locks in case of medical emergency," Erik offers. The look that creeps over the blond girl's face is very similar to the one Angel was sporting earlier. Lips parted, with an audible sigh, jaw locked and eyes again rolling skyward. The Ship's Assistant waits patiently- and silently- for her to elaborate on the source of her displeasure. After a moment, however, Raven's delicately made-up face takes on another expression entirely. Erik has seen this far more rarely; his EROS databank identifies it as the dramatic version of 'pity'.

"If you thought Charles was all sweetness and light and a basketful of kitties," she tells him, wagging a bejeweled finger, "then you've got another 'think' coming."

As there is no rational reply to this at present, Erik settles on a standard noncommittal conversational tool. "Oh?"

Human language is extremely idiosyncratic. No branch, no family or dialect is exempt from the convoluted connections homo sapiens are so partial to. Teenagers and young adults, in particular, go further by deliberately using a verbal shorthand designed to confound their elders. When Raven continues staring at him, the Ship's Assistant decides to offer his own observation, in hopes that it will draw her out. He has made an analysis and preliminary determination of the character traits of everyone who has boarded this ship.

"Charles is…"

With a human, the lack of sentence resolution would be permissible, or perhaps used as an indicator to read nonverbal cues instead. Erik never speaks without knowing the entirety of the statement he is going to make, and yet there seems to be a conflict. 'Highly intelligent but under-socialized' could be used as a descriptive phrase but, if the boy had internalized the attitudes of his contemporaries, Charles would not have spent the last two nights enthusiastically questioning Erik about Lyman Alpha blobs in deep space, and chattering delightedly about a vintage film comedy called '_Duck Soup'_. 'Unusually empathetic' also seems unwise, as his sister might take that as a subtle reference to Charles' telepathy. Humans on the whole prefer stereotypes and cliches because it cuts down on processing time. Erik knows, however, that- particularly amongst friends and relatives- those same popular stereotypes are extremely unwelcome. Raven might feel that he was trying to characterize Charles solely by his disability, or that the boy is somehow 'quaint'. None of these highly biased statements can be applied to Charles in the slightest, and it takes the android less than .57 seconds to discard them. Eliminating possibilities, however, does not provide a solution.

"Charles is different," Raven finishes for him. In her perception, very little time has passed- she has not been combing diverse data clusters for something so outside the realm of her experience. "He's special."

Special, as in an exception. In science, exceptions are anomalies; anecdotal evidence that does not fit with observable data. Often, these unusual examples are highly prized. Dr. Stark (of Eta Carinae fame) is also quite famous for having located a Magnetar- a dying star so heavy its magnetic field is strong enough to deform atoms. Tanzanite is an unusual stone, found only near Mount Kilimanjaro, whose rich colors actually change in regular light. After blossoming at dawn, tiny stigmas must be quickly harvested to produce Saffron- making it the most expensive spice on Earth.

"Special." Erik repeats the word, but it is not a question. This is a highly accurate assessment and slots several of his most intimate subroutines into sound agreement with one another. He is, after all, a scientist's robot. While all artifacts are worthwhile, it is only logical that rare ones should be more protected and prized.

"In a good way!" says the human before him, poking his gray-clad chest soundly. She seems to feel he has disagreed with her in some way. Even more loudly, "I'll have you know-"

Her voice rings quite clearly in the hallway as the overwhelming music is abruptly shut off. Immediately, Raven's attention is back on the door.

"Thank god and all her crazy cousins!" She shouts, kicking the door again for good measure. "Did you want to give that crazy douche-tard an excuse to file a complaint before you guys even get out of the solar system!?"

Even Erik has seen enough pop-culture vid-feed to pick up on that one. "Of which 'douche-bag bastard' do you speak?"

"Shaw," Raven spits. "Daddy and Charles have the forward part of Deck B. Shaw and his assistant have the aft." It's an absent-minded explanation. The girl is far more focused on pressing up against the metal barrier, as if a few centimeters will make her words carry further. "Charles, come on. I wasn't trying to be mean. You and Sharon… that's you business, I'm sorry I said anything."

A little voice carries from inside the suite. "'The sharpest sword is a word spoken in wrath'." The statement would sound quite chiding and serene, if not for the sound of clearing nasal passages that follows.

"Someone save me from the well-read existentialist!" Raven flings up her hands. Then, more quietly, "Charles, have you been crying?"

"The current model of masculinity enshrines an insular stoicism that precludes…"

"Don't give me that gendered bull-shit." Raking fingers through her hair- destroying her delicate coif in the process- the older human pulls at her scalp in frustration. "It's like talking to a Magic 8-Ball."

A brief cross-reference at least sheds light on that bit of sarcasm. "Charles' statements are well-reasoned," Erik interjects. Perhaps a third opinion- even a nonhuman one- will assist in ending what appears to be an on-going stalemate. "I would be far more skeptical of answers provided by an inexpensive novelty toy."

Laughter- brief but startlingly alto- from behind the door.

"Fine, gang up on me. At least have the decency to come out and do it to my face. Come on out, now." The android seems to sense genuine irritation in the young woman's voice now. Charles must sense it too, as there's a disgruntled thump from the inside of the suite.

"Charles!"

"No esta aqui!" the boy calls out. It's his final word on the subject- the sconce above the threshold turns light blue, indicating the guest's desire for an environment conducive to sleep.

"What did you _want_?" It ill advised to do anything abruptly while clad in such footwear, but Erik would especially refrain from the dramatic whirl and aggressive stride Raven adopts as she moves away from him.

The Ship's assistant blinks. "I came to request Charles' cycle-book. Ms. Frost has already provided me with hers." He has not had the opportunity to observe many sibling interactions, but these two seem particularly labyrinthine in their relations. Then again, the only other set he knew were brother physicists on the Nephthys' second mission. Common field of study or no, those two young men could barely stand to share a room for the length of a debriefing.

"Frost is a telepath?" Raven asks, indulging in the human trait of seizing on peripheral information.

"Ms. Frost is a lambda-level telepath," Erik says, because this is in no way classified information. Weyland Industries could not hide such a thing even if they wanted to; assuming the Department of Extra-human Matriculation didn't get them (unlikely), word of mouth and human outcry would. As it is, the company has wisely adopted a forthright, championing attitude. 'It's not a bug, it's a feature,' Emma told Erik on the first mission. She'd had a great deal of wine- it lent a brittle edge to her laugh.

"Well, I usually give Charles his injections," the human girl says presently. "So I keep his book. I was just going to leave it with Daddy."

"Miss Xavier-"

"Darkholme."

"Beg pardon?"

"I took my birth mother's name," she clarifies. "Darkholme."

Normally, Erik would consider this a nonessential detail and remind the human to confine her remarks to the topic at hand. His processors instead store the new data to be considered later- perhaps it provides context for Charles. "Miss Darkholme," he begins again, "I politely request your brother's cycle book."

"What-" Her statistically median hazel eyes regard him for a moment. Erik believes humans often read additional, unintended cues into his carefully neutral expression. This seems to be the case now. "He let his license lapse, didn't he?"

"Your father?" It should be clear whom they're speaking of, but it never hurts to be specific with humans. "Yes. It is three months out of date. Doctor Shaw, however, has a current license and will act as dispenser for the mission."

"Bloody brilliant," Raven mutters under her breath, but she no longer seems inclined to argue. She darts quickly into the common day-room, rummaging amidst brightly colored fabrics, concept drawings and strings of sequins. Like Ms. Frost, she keeps the little red book in her purse. She holds it between thumb and forefinger, as if the color of it burns. "Here."

"Thank you," Erik accepts the book as it is thrust towards him. Not for the first time, it occurs to him that this method of record keeping is inefficient- why not keep a record of Hapaxam shots with the rest of the crew's medical data? Perhaps it has to do with the human inclination towards things that are tactile, or perhaps there is some finer point of social interaction his EROS system cannot detect.

Having obtained what he has come for, Erik turns sharply. He will take the books down to Dr. Shaw, and- provided there are no new tasks- begin the safety checks for the ion engines. The work is too fine, and too dangerous, for humans to consider. However, if he attends to this in a timely manner, he can spend the night-shift hours working with the navigation computers. The helm is, of course, designed for human comfort, and Charles may sit with him there.

"Hey."

The Ship's Assistant stops, tilting his head slightly in inquiry. This is unexpected- he had believed he had correctly read Raven's attitude as dismissal or discomfort towards synthetic beings.

"Miss Darkholme?" he turns fully. The girl standing before him shares very few physical similarities, though at the moment they both appear younger than they really are. "He's done nothing but talk about you since we got here. 'Erik this', and 'Erik that'."

Neither Erik nor his EROS can come up with a response for this.

"He likes you," she enunciates slowly, as though speaking to someone alien. Perhaps she is. For all Erik's synthetic mind has been modeled on his human inventors, there will never be any way to conclusively prove just how much of their perceptions actually align.

"Charles is a brat." The statement is utterly at odds with the affection Raven uses to voice it. "He can be charming, overly sensitive, frighteningly astute. He's bloody stupid about people, he's adorable, and he's way too book-smart for his own good." As if intelligence were a disadvantage to be guarded against, the way many couples did reproductive screening for telepathy. "Daddy took this position because he wants to lose himself in his work- at this point, Charles is just along for the ride." A heavy sigh, "Oh, why am I bothering to tell a _robot_ this?"

"Humans often make emotional statements and/or revelations to synthetic lifeforms, believing themselves safe from judgement." Even scientists, who understand the design and function of David 8 better than the general public, occasionally indulge in drunken narratives spoken at Erik. 'At', not 'to', because the android's reaction is not important. It is the psychological value of saying something aloud.

"You two will get along just fine," she snorts. There follows a moment of utter transparency on her face- Erik cannot readily identify the emotion, but he feels oddly impelled to look away. "Will you look out for him?"

As Ship's Assistant, Erik should tell her that all humans aboard the Nephthys will be his top priority for the duration of the mission. As a David 8, he should point out that he has been carefully designed to consider emotional and psychological wellbeing, as well as physical health. As an android, he might ask her what else he would do, if not serve those who created him.

Logical responses, all, but never the less discarded. Erik thinks of the Eta Carinae explosion- of the brilliant images Dr. Stark captured and saved to the ship's memory. He thinks of complicated polyhedrons and imaginary planes. Tanzanite has a very unusual violet-blue hue- Charles has said he enjoys the interactions of light and color. Perhaps he would be interested in learning about the stone.

Erik just says, "Yes. I will."

*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*

MORE DORKY NOTES: 

+ The song Charles is listening to is "inní mér syngur vitleysingur (inside me a madman sings)" by Sigur Ros, of Iceland. It's a really beautiful song. (No, I don't know what it means, either. ^_~)

+'The sharpest sword is a word spoken in wrath.'- Gautama Buddha. (Yes, Charles is a little shit.)

+Magnetars

really exist. Could I make this stuff up?

+'No esta aqui!'- Spanish. 'I'm not here.'


End file.
